


Winter Kisses

by fakexpearls



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Don't copy to another site, M/M, Modern AU, Roommates, coffee shop AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-09-30 22:53:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17232680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fakexpearls/pseuds/fakexpearls
Summary: Laurent's been in love with his roommate for years. The morning after Damen tried to kiss him, and Laurent ran away like the fool his is, Laurent needs a ride to work.or:Laurent's Gay Winter Panic





	Winter Kisses

Leaning his head against the door jam, Laurent knocked softly. Once. Twice. Three times. 

“Damen?” he called weakly, waiting for there to be any noise from the other side of the door. He knocked again. 

A more confident man, Laurent on any other day, would have turned the knob and woken his roommate up with no qualms about disrespecting privacy or boundaries. Between the two of them, it happened often enough.

But after last night, he couldn’t. 

Last night, when the snow had only just started to fall and the cold had yet to seep through the windows. When Laurent had been making dinner and Damen had walked in, exhausted from his long day on campus, dropping his book bag, kicking off his shoes and collapsing on the couch. The couch where they had both ended up on after dinner, catching up on TV and piling blankets on top of one another as the temperature dropped and the hours passed. 

The Christmas lights had been twinkling, and eventually the TV show was forgotten as the two of them talked, slowly shifting closer to one another. At one point, there had been hot chocolate, Laurent’s with extra marshmallows that Damen teased him about, as always. Sitting beside him, his own cocoa spiked with some rum, Damen had looked happy and relaxed -- more so than he had been in days. 

When he smiled at Laurent, the dimple in his left cheek had showed. Laurent, always flustered by that, had averted his eyes to the stitching on the blanket until his cheeks were no longer flushed, telling his overeager heart to calm down.

Thinking back on it now, thinking back on it as he had all night, everything had been  _ just _ on the side of romantic. A picture perfect scene to play out in a Christmas movie - two friends finally realizing that they both wanted to be something more. Laurent should have recognized the signs. On any other night, he would have been  _ desperate _ for the signs. 

When Damen had leaned in, Laurent had already known what he wanted. He had known for two years. So why he had pulled away from Damen’s kiss, murmuring an apology and making a quick escape to his room, he still wasn’t sure.

Laurent could feel the warm shame in his cheeks as he knocked again on the bedroom door, calling out the other man’s name. 

Fear was a silly thing.

Snowstorms were another.

Finally, he heard the sounds of stumbling and a tired groan. When Damen pulled open the door, Laurent had already taken a step back, hands clasped behind him.

“What is it?” asked Damen, bringing one arm up to shield his eyes from the hall light. 

Even in the winter, he slept shirtless. Laurent tried not to let his mind wander down that path and kept his gaze above shoulder-level. 

“Laurent, what’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry - I know it’s early but the snowstorm…. I’m supposed to open today,” he reminded Damen. 

He had complained about it last night, as he always did when he was scheduled to open. Opening meant his alarm went off at 3:30 a.m. and that he was out the door by 4:30 so he would be at the front door when his manager arrived at 5:00. He would be two Americanos deep by 5:30 and well on his way to being a contributing member of society by 6:00.

There was an art to it all, a routine. Even the brisk walk to the coffeehouse was part of it.   

“There’s two feet of snow,” Laurent said, and he had never felt such hatred for a weather pattern before. “Can you drive me? I scraped the car windows already.”

In response, Damen grunted and pulled a hand through his hair. It made the curls at the front stand up in a way that Laurent would not let himself find endearing. Not right then. 

Damen then turned back into his room. “Go start the car,” he said, tossing Laurent his car keys. “Give me ten minutes.”

The car ride was, as Laurent had expected, awkward. 

The early hour paired with the winter weather lent to the quiet, but the tension between him and Damen was palpable. They didn’t always need to fill the silence - it was part of the reason the two of them had gotten along so well in the beginning. But this was unfamiliar and unwelcome. 

It would have over quickly had the snow plows been out already. Damen could have have been back in bed, and Laurent would have been behind the bar waiting to pull the first shots of espresso.  Instead, they slowly made their way through the dark streets, every car around them going well below the speed limit for fear of ice. 

As Damen brought the car to stop at a red light, Laurent wondered if he would be able to last the rest of the drive without his anxiety eating him from the inside. He tugged on his gloves, then pulled his knit hat down further over his ears. Beside him, Damen was only in a thick hoodie, ever the furnace. 

It would be pointless to ask Damen if he was cold, but the question was still on the tip of Laurent’s tongue, and he was ready to roll his eyes at whatever was said in response. It would be so simple, so easy - their friendship was full of many comfortable routines, of habits Laurent wrapped himself up in blankets. Like the blankets from the night before --

Laurent cleared his throat, attempting to clear his mind at the same time, and looked to Damen from the corner of his eye. “Do you have work today?”

“No.” 

“Are you going to campus?” 

“In this weather?” Damen asked dryly. He had yet to look away from the road ahead. 

“Are you going to study?” Laurent pressed on. Then, because he already knew the answer and he knew that grad school was the leading cause of breakdowns on campus, especially as finals approached, he added, “You’re overtired.”

That earned him a sad, short laugh. “Because we both slept so well last night.”

The two hours Laurent had managed to not spend staring at the ceiling, thinking about Damen’s lips on his, how he had ruined everything - their friendship, anything that could be beyond that, how he would have to sneak out extra quietly in the morning so as to not wake Damen….

Laurent sighed to himself, crossing his arms and looking back out his window.

Even though the sun had yet to rise, a husky came bounding around the street corner. The dog’s face was full of joy,  and his owner, bundled up, was being pulled along by the leash. 

They made it down another street, the car in front of them hitting an ice-patch and swerving. Damen cursed under his breath as he tapped on the breaks - slowly. So they wouldn’t slide as well. 

There was only another block between them and the coffee shop, which still felt like it was miles away.

“So, I guess we aren’t going to talk about last night, then.”  

Laurent wasn’t sure exactly what he was supposed to say, what he  _ wanted _ to say, so he chose to stay silent. He watched what few flakes were falling hit the windshield and melt. 

“Are you dating Jamie?” 

“What?” Laurent said, turning around in his seat to face Damen. “What are you talking about?”

“That kid who came over last week to study.”

“Jamie?” He said, confused. “He’s my lab partner.” Which Damen knew. “He knows how I take notes and doesn’t want to fail O-Chem.” Which Laurent had passed last semester with a B-plus.

He held onto that B-plus with all the pride in his body.

Laurent could see Damen roll his eyes. 

“I’m not dating Jamie,” he said, just to be sure that was clear. “I’m not dating anyone.”

“Then why…” Damen trailed off, pulling the car over outside of the coffee shop. He finally turned so his gaze met Laurent’s. “I don’t understand,” he said, voice dipping, brow furrowed.

Neither did Laurent, truly. But if he had to be fit for public consumption, making small talk with customers and coworkers, he could not let his thoughts wander too far down that road. 

Looking into the lit coffee shop, he could see his manager already at the till. Even though he still had a few minutes to spare, he didn’t think he could be in the car much longer with Damen without yelling about his own confusion and idiocy. Without begging Damen for some clarity on what had happened, and would have from there.

Because there was so much that could have happened. Laurent had spent much of his night thinking about all the better ways, the tender, gentle ways, things could have gone.  

“Thank you for giving me a ride,” he said, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Please let me know when you get home safe. And then go back to bed.”

“Laurent.”

Laurent pulled on the door handle. “I’ll see you tonight,” he said and then got out of the car. 

He did not look back to see Damen’s expression, but in the shop’s windows he could see the car still idling until his manager came and let him in. 

  
  


***

  
  


Once Laurent got Damen’s text that he was home, he tried to throw himself into work. 

There was a rhythm to opening the coffee shop; pull the chairs down from the tables, get the espresso machines up and running, the regular coffee brewing. Stock the syrups and cup sleeves, remove the muffins from the oven when the timer went off and put the croissants in to bake. Steal a muffin when it was just cool enough, brew his own cup of coffee, and wait for the time-clock to show 6:00 on the nose before turning the open sign on and unlocking the doors.  

Laurent did all of this, pulled his hair back into a ponytail, took up his usual place behind one of the espresso machines, and still had to tell himself to stop thinking about Damen. 

“Decaf doubleshot for Jen!” Which was a poor drink choice for seven in the morning, but whatever.

Damen would only drink coffee before noon. He swore it kept him up all night otherwise.

“What kind of cake-pops do you have?” A customer asked as a child held one victoriously in his hand, his mother patting his head and looking like a woman who knew she had made the wrong choice.

“Strawberry, birthday cake, peppermint cocoa, and cookie dough,” Laurent recited as he pulled one of the espresso shots. 

At one point, Damen had rated all the cake-pops at the coffee shop, doing so for “science” when he had been procrastinating on a paper. The peppermint cocoa ones were his favorite, followed by strawberry. In the summer, there was a coconut one he loved even more.

It was quite a sad moment when he saw a customer’s keyring and recognized the logo of the gym Damen went to and spent the next five minutes wondering what exactly Damen did at the gym, and how much he could lift with his large, bulging biceps.

He could easily lift Laurent, right?

The macchiato that spilled across the counter pulled him back to the present, and his cheeks had burned with color.

But yeah, Damen could totally carry Laurent. Obviously. 

How this theory had yet to be tested was beyond him, but he was both glad and annoyed about that fact.   

“Laurent,” he heard a customer say when the morning rush was winding down. The man had incorrectly pronounced the ‘t.’ “Is that French?”

Looking away from the espresso machine and the shot pulling, Laurent raised an eyebrow at the young man waiting for his drink - a triple mocha with extra whip. 

The guy was dressed for the weather, his knitted scarf looped around his neck multiple times, his beanie just barely covering his ears in the causal way that meant it was anything but. Behind his thick-rimmed glasses, green eyes peered at Laurent like he was something to study.

“Yeah,” Laurent said, turning the cup so he could read the name - Nicholas. 

Even when they first met, Damen hadn’t pronounced his name incorrectly. He had known Auguste long enough to correct any mispronunciations beforehand, but still. 

“I studied French in high school,” Nicholas went on, taking a step closer to the bar. “But I could never get a grasp on the names. Or the verb-tenses.”

Pumping the chocolate syrup into the cup, Laurent hummed noncommittally. He tossed two of the three shots in the cup and started to pull the other. He only really chatted with the customers he saw on the regular, and otherwise was kind and serviceable to the others before they were distracted by their phones.

“Are you from France?”

Apparently, Nicholas did not have his phone nearby. And he was very, very bad at flirting. 

Damen, Laurent knew, was very good at it. Unintentionally. 

It was quite unfair, truth be told, that Laurent was subject to those puppy-dog brown eyes and ridiculously handsome smile - and the  _ dimple _ \- every day. And then when the other man spoke, it was like every third sentence was a smooth line directed right to Laurent’s heart and down to his --

He grabbed for the milk and the steaming pitcher, refusing to continue that train of the thought in a public place. “Nope,” he replied.

“Huh. Well I haven’t seen you around here before --”

“Laurent!” Vannes, his favorite and least favorite coworker, had just clocked in. She sidled up to Laurent and the other espresso machine. “How is that big beefcake of yours doing?”

“Uh.”

“Karen says he dropped you off. And didn’t even come inside. What the heck.” 

All of those things were true, but it wasn’t something that needed to be broadcasted across the cafe at  such an unnecessary volume. 

Turning from Vannes, Laurent held the sprinkle shaker up to Nicholas. “Do you want these?” he asked. The drink was already covered with the extra whip. 

“Um.”

“How dare he drop you off and not come in, to be honest,” continued Vannes as if this was her normal volume. 

“It was five a.m.. You just got here.” Laurent was still offering Nicholas the sprinkles. 

The poor guy shook his head minutely.

Reaching for a lid, Laurent added quietly, and mostly to himself, “He needs his sleep.”

When Nicholas and his mocha were out the door, Vannes’ praise for Damen still went on. And on. Eventually, Karen at the register chimed in and the two of them went back and forth about Damen’s fantastic personality and muscles and smile and Laurent didn’t disagree with even one of their claims. 

He just made the next drink in line.

“I’m just saying, not only are his biceps huge but so is his brain,” Vannes said with some conviction, like her point was made. 

“If that ain’t the truth,” added another coworker, going behind Laurent for the pitcher of iced tea. 

When the morning rush was finally winding down, the lull before the lunch crowd settling in, and Laurent finally had a second to breathe, Vannes turned her attention to him.

“You’re being weird,” she said. “What’s going on?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. First of all, you haven’t said anything about my hair yet.” Vannes pointed at her red top-knot which truly was atrocious. “You have never once cared so much about making a cappuccino,” She had a point there, but people were such assholes about their foam and Laurent had just wanted to get it right. “And you didn’t tell that guy earlier morning to scram. Or pull out your fake-boyfriend card.”

“Maybe I wanted the tips.”

Vannes handed off an iced coffee with a sweet smile and then turning to him with an arched brow. “Uh huh. Try again.”

Vannes had been the one to train Laurent when he started at the shop a little over a year ago, and while she was only a few years older than him - one older than Damen, she had taken it upon herself to be Laurent’s guiding hand - the extra older sibling that he most certainly did not need. Well, at least at work. In all other areas of life, she was a self-proclaimed ‘redheaded fuckup’ who ‘just wanted to settle down with a nice woman. No, not that one.’ 

She meant well. Laurent knew that. 

“Dave!” he called, placing a lid over the drink he had just finished making, “Here’s your latte!”

“Just tell me what’s going on,” Vannes pressed. “Is it school? Finals? Family? Did Damen meet someone?”

“What?” Laurent said, turning from the espresso machines. “Why would -- ”

“Is that why you couldn’t use him as your fake-boyfriend?” she asked, then, “Oh crap - did we forget your muffin?” 

Dave, who was one of the regulars, gave a nod. 

“Hold on, hun.” 

“I’m not - Damen isn’t seeing anyone,” Laurent said. 

Vannes plated a muffin, handing it over to Dave with another one of her sweet smiles before turning to Laurent, gesturing with the pastry case tongs. “Honey, I know it hasn’t escaped your notice that your roommate is a prime cut of beefcake. We’re talking Grade A. Served at the booji restaurants you and I can’t even dream of getting in to,” she said. 

“Please stop tell me how attractive he is.” His words came out almost as a whine. “I know, okay.”

“He’s very tall,” added Dave, tilting his head to one side. 

Laurent shot him a quick glare. 

“And we all like tall men,” agreed Vannes. “But my point -” she clicked the tongs again. “My point is that anyone would be all over that. And last time that they were… oh, god. What was her name?”

“Lykaios,” said another of their coworkers. 

Vannes repeated the name. “That was a rough couple of weeks for you,” she told Laurent like he wasn’t seeing the petite blonde woman’s face in his mind. Or her on their couch. Or at the dinner table. Or the one time she had come out of Damen’s room in one of his shirts.

“It was rough for us all,” Dave agreed, nodding solemnly. 

With that, Laurent decided it was time for his lunch. 

The only place to go, really, was outside, so Laurent bundled himself back up and went to sit at the back door. A pastry in one hand, he pried his phone from his back pocket, Laurent saw the time - 10:35 - and that he had no new messages. If his shoulders slumped at that, there was no one else to see.

Most importantly, there was no Vannes to remark about it.

He hoped Damen was still sleeping, and he didn’t want to wake him with a text. Not that he knew what he would say exactly.  _ Remember Lykaios? Vannes does.  _ Or maybe  _ I use you as an excuse to get customers to stop flirting with me. I like calling you my boyfriend. _

Laurent knew he would have to explain what had happened last night. At the very least, he would have to try. He owed Damen that much - an attempt at putting his worries into words, along with his feelings. At doing so while looking Damen in the eye and not hiding behind his phone screen. 

“Would rather not, though,” he said out loud.  

Jumping from social media app to social media app for a few minutes, he ended up back in his messages. Beneath Damen’s message from that morning was his last message from his brother.

Well, if there was anyone who knew the both of them the best...

_ What would happen if Damen and I were to date? _ he texted Auguste.  _ Do you think it would ruin things?  _ He sent right after the first message. 

He stared at his phone screen for lack of something better to do. A few seconds later, the three dots that meant his brother was responding appeared on the screen.

_ I think that Damen wouldn’t let it ruin things. Neither would you,  _ Auguste replied. 

_ But what if it did? _

_ Did something happen?  _ asked Auguste.

Laurent sighed.   

_ Did Damen make a move? Do you want him to make a move? Did YOU make a move? _

The answer was simple.  _ Yes.  _ he replied.

Five seconds later, Laurent’s phone started to ring, his brother’s contact picture taking up the screen.

Again, he sighed. 

“Hello, brother,” he said with the phone to his ear, eyes focused on the building across from him. The gray brick exterior has been spray-painted, youth vandalism in all its glory, but Laurent couldn’t make sense of the design. 

“Who kissed who?” Auguste asked without preamble. “My money is on Damen, but you’re both in deep enough that maybe you finally worked up the nerve and made a move.”

“Why are you like this?” Laurent asked, affronted. This was nearly worse than Vannes. “Why? What made you this way?”

“I’m a doctor.”

“In training.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” continued Auguste, rationally, but his tone was smug and Laurent did not like it. “But something is wrong with you… or Damen. Maybe the both of you. Doesn’t matter. Tell me what happened.”

“You are the worst,” said Laurent. “Utterly the worst big brother - you’re supposed to be helping me and—”

“Laurent, tell me what happened before someone else is admitted and is gushing blood and I have to hang up.”

Well, when he put it like that…. Laurent told his older brother about the night before, about everything being just on the right side of perfect, about Damen kissing him and his panic, and then about this morning and Laurent’s complete inability to communicate. 

“So you rejected him and then you asked him to give you a ride to work?” Auguste asked.

“I didn’t reject him,” argued Laurent. 

“No, you just ran away from him like any form of emotional commitment terrified you.”

“Hey!” Laurent objected, but the silence that followed his outcry was full of judgment. He could see Auguste’s raised brow perfectly in his mind, the pursed lips and tilt of his head. “I’ve been in love with him for ages,” Laurent admitted, the words quiet, eyes closed. When he opened them again, the brick wall across from him hadn’t changed. Nothing had with his admission. 

He let out a shaky breath.

“Years, Auguste.” 

“I know,” said his brother, his tone more understanding now. “And it would be embarrassing if it wasn’t mutual, but Damen’s been gone on you for just as long. But now the question is, what are you going to do about it?” 

“I don’t know.”

“I think you do, little brother, ” said Auguste. “And I think you’re scared of that too, but I think this time, things might turn out okay. If you let them.” 

  
  


***

  
  


When Laurent came home to an empty apartment, he decided to take a nap instead of rage cleaning or studying or anything else that would have been productive.  

By the time he woke up, the sun had set. It was the first thing he noticed as he crawled out of bed and went to close his curtains too little too late. The darkness didn’t mean much in the winter months when the sun set before rush-hour had even begun, but his phone showed that it was nearly dinner time now. (And that he had two text messages from Auguste that could most certainly wait his reply.)

The conviction he had felt after talking to his brother earlier, and the planning and determination that had carried him through the rest of his shift was gone, replaced by shuffling feet and then a groan when Laurent opened his door and was assaulted by the light from the rest of the apartment.

“Jesus,” he muttered.  

Damen, who had left a note on the counter for Laurent to find after work, was back from the gym. He sat at the dinner table, books and laptop before him, dressed in sweats and a hoodie that looked unfairly soft. 

“Your up.”

Laurent groaned again. He could have easily turned around and crawled back under the covers until the morning. Instead, he got a glass of water and tried to feel like a person again. But a person had feelings, and Laurent wasn’t ready to acknowledge those even as his stomach started to knot up like it had been that morning,

“I ordered Thai for dinner,” said Damen. “Should be here shortly.” 

“Okay.” Laurent stood by the kitchen sink, even as every part of him wished to do more. 

He wanted to walk to Damen’s side, to push his hair back from his forehead, maybe place a kiss there. Or run a hand across his tense shoulders, trying to sooth out some of the stress as he reminded Damen that he still had time. He didn’t have to remember everything for his classes tomorrow.  

Instead, he went and grabbed his own textbooks and notes, settling in across the table from Damen until dinner arrived. In the forty-five minutes that passed, there was not a single thing that Laurent had read that he retained, nor could he recall any part of his notes that he’d reviewed. He had been too busy stealing glances across the table, hoping that he would catch Damen doing the same.

He never did.

When the doorbell rang, it was almost a blessing - a break from the silence and the tension that had been steadily building between them. 

When all the containers were spread out across the table, the books pushed off to the side, Laurent picked up his fork, skewered a piece of broccoli in his curry, and then put the fork down.

He looked up to Damen who was distracted by something on his phone, shoveling pad-thai into his mouth. 

“Thanks for taking care of dinner,” Laurent said.

“No problem.”

“How was your day?” he tried when Damen’s focused remained on his phone. “Did you get back to sleep?”

A sigh. A nod. Damen sat his phone down and looked to Laurent. “Yeah, for awhile. But Nik called around nine. Then I studied, when to the gym, now --” he gestured to his textbooks. “Do you want an eggroll?”

Laurent shook his head. He tried to eat again, managing a few bites as silence took over the apartment. So much was on the tip of his tongue, his thoughts starting to tangle as he waited another minute, waited for some sort of sign. Something from Damen.

But the other man had picked his phone back up, his attention easily averted, leaving Laurent to his thoughts and his curry.

Dinner was never a quiet affair - not like this. If they were both home, there was always something on the table by 6:30, no matter who was in charge of the food for the night. Textbooks and laptops were left closed - at least that still held, Laurent thought - so he and Damen could have a break even if it was just for half an hour. Even if a paper was driving one of them crazy, or a lab report was due the next day, it could wait. 

It was an unspoken routine, but one they had maintained since Laurent had taken Auguste’s empty room and half of the rent. 

It was never tense.

It was never this quiet.

“I’m sorry,” Laurent said, the words rushing out of him, “About last night and this morning.”

Damen sighed again and said his name. 

“No, please listen. I’m sorry. I had a shitty day,” he admitted, pushing his dinner away and clasping his hands together in front of him. “I just wanted to be here with you and -- figuring stuff out instead of spilling coffee and having people tell me my name was French.” 

Damen frowned, his head tilting to one side as he once again put his phone down - this time with the screen to the table. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but Laurent continued on.

“And I’m sorry you had to get up and take me to work, and I’m sorry I had to ask.”

“No, Laurent - it wasn’t an issue. I don’t mind --”

Laurent cut him off. “You need to sleep. I know you think you’re indestructible and you can lift fridges on your own or whatever and staying up until two is completely logical when it comes to studying, but you’re going to burn out. I know I sound like your mother, but it’s true!” His voice was raised now, but there had been a point he was making, before. Right. “So I do feel bad that you had to get up after a shitty night and take me to work because I keep telling you that you need to sleep and then I woke you up!”

“Are you mad that I drove you?” Damen asked, confused.  

“What? No!” 

“Then why --”

“But you have every right to be mad at me!” Laurent told him, because that was what he had been worried about all day.  

If possible, Damen’s frown deepened and he looked at Laurent like he was worried about saying the wrong thing. “Do...do both of us think the other person should be mad at them?” 

Laurent scoffed. “I’m not mad at you.”

“Right,” Damen said slowly, “And I’m not mad at you, so I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.”

“What are you even - Damen,” Laurent said his name with exasperation, pushing back from the table and standing up. He couldn’t even bask in the relief that Damen wasn’t mad. “Listen to me!”

“I am trying!” 

But everything had gotten away from Laurent, now. His point. His well-planned speech. There was supposed to be declarations of feeling, but before that a more pertinent apology. 

“Okay,” he said, and took a breath. “Alright.” Another breath as a hand went through his hair. When he felt settled - even just barely so - Laurent met Damen’s gaze and held it. “What I’ve been trying to say is that I’m sorry I ran away from you last night.”

It was Damen’s turn to get up out of his seat. “We don’t have to do this now,” he said, voice unreasonably calm and unaffected.

“Yes we do,” Laurent insisted.  

“No, we can just ignore that. Pretend it never happened, even.” 

“Damen.”

“It’s not big deal,” the other man said. He turned away from Laurent, a hand rubbing at the back of his neck. It was the only tell Laurent had to know he was uncomfortable. “I don’t want that - anything to come between us. Let’s just forget about it,” he said again. “Please.”

“What if I don’t want...” Laurent could see the slight tremor in his own hands, he could feel all the butterflies in his stomach, and he hated both. He took a step forward.

Damen dropped the hand from his neck and looked at him.

“What if I don’t want to forget about it? What if I wanted to try again? No running this time.” Now Laurent had all of Damen’s attention, and he took another step. “What I mean is… I wanted to kiss you last night night. I wanted to kiss you all day. When I came home. Now,” he admitted. “This morning when you were half awake and grumpy.”

This time when Damen said his name, it was soft. 

“I have spent all day trying to come up with an apology, and trying to figure out what to say to you. I even talk to Auguste about it and--”

Whatever rant Laurent had been about to start was cut off by Damen’s lips coming to meet his.

Like the night before, Laurent was surprised. His breath caught this time, just as it had on the couch, but like he’s promised, Laurent didn’t run away. He wrapped his arms arounds Damen’s neck instead, going up on his tiptoes as he kissed back. 

It was ridiculous how much better it was than any fantasy.

Laurent pushed Damen’s curls back from his face and then felt strong arms come under his thighs and lift him onto the tabletop. Dinner was all but abandoned as Damen kissed him, and Laurent kissed him back more and more and more.

When they finally had to break for air, Laurent felt warm all over. And happy. 

“Is this my sweatshirt?” Damen asked. His breath tickled Laurent’s cheek as his fingers tugged on the hem. 

“Maybe?” Truly, Laurent didn’t know. It had been in his closet for awhile now. As Damen trailed his lips across Laurent’s cheek, he truly couldn’t have cared less who the sweater belonged to. “Did --” Laurent’ breath caught as Damen bit his earlobe. “Did you find the cake-pop?”  

Damen’s chuckle was loud in his ear. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> There was a post of AU ideas floating around tumblr that I stole the basis from: "It’s snowing and I usually walk to work but that’s not happening, hey roomie, can you please drive me? Yes I know its 4am "  
>   
> This was maybe going to be 1,500 words and it clearly got away with me and became every self-indulgent thing I wanted. Coffeeshop AU? YOU BETCHA. But they were roommates? OH BOY YES PLEASE.  
> Thank you to Beefy for cheer-leading, listening to me complain about this ficlet turned fic turned me thinking about other ideas in this AU, and then betad when I was still writing the ending.  
> I hope someone else enjoyed this silly thing - comments and kudos are always appreciated!  
> You can find me on tumblr @laurnotofvere for Captive Prince or [Here’s my main blog](http://fakexpearls.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> My twitter (which is a lot less yelling about Kings in Love than original promised) is also Fakexpearls


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